"Geraldine woke out of busy dreams into the calms and shallows of old age. There were two skylights in her attic bedroom, and when she opened her eyes she saw clouds floating past, slow and stately against a pale sky; the angular under-shape of a gull's flight was printed for a moment, soundless beyond the glass. She was alone in the absolutely quiet house: she was used to this and it mostly felt like freedom, after the long years of her marriage."
"There was a time when, if Mattie Szymanski came into a room, everyone looked at him. The men wanted to be his rivals or his disciples and the women were in love with him-at least Geraldine was, and so was her best friend, Jane. They were undergraduates then, in the early seventies, and Mattie was a graduate student; they were in awe of him because he had read everything, knew everything."
Geraldine wakes from vivid dreams into the quiet calm of old age, framed by two skylights and a pale sky. She experiences dreams that plunge her back into crowded, energetic scenes and a poignant visit from Mattie Szymanski, who appears young though actually dead. The dream involves a manuscript she cannot keep in order, suggesting lost possibilities. In youth, Mattie commanded attention and admiration; men sought him as rival or disciple and women, including Geraldine and her friend Jane, were in love with him. Memories merge admiration, longing, and the solitude of later life.
Read at The New Yorker
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